One By One
by stress
Summary: AU / Newsies meets Agatha Christie's "And Then There Were None" / April 3rd 1921: Ten people have found themselves stranded together inside an old house on an isolated island. They've never met before but, by the time their stay is done, they'll have shared their darkest secrets – if they survive, that is. Because it isn't long until they start to get picked off, one by one...
1. Prologue: the letters

**Disclaimer**: Any characters you recognize in this story are the property of Disney and their likenesses are only used for fan related purposes. Any original characters featured are the intellectual property of their creators.

**Author's Note**: In commemoration of my ten year anniversary on (today, actually), I decided to start my summer story. Since I've spent the last two summers writing a full-fledged fic each, I thought I might start the new one now - and it definitely promises to be a doozy. Consider this a Newsies meets Agatha Christie's _And Then There Were None _meets _Clue _meets _Harper's Island _meets my messed up brain_. _The title pretty much says it all and, seeing as how I love murder mysteries, I'm really excited to delve into this with this little teaser of a first chapter.

**Warning**: This story will have some minor language, non-graphic violence, plenty of character death and more than a few allusions to Agatha Christie's work.

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><p><strong>One By One<strong>

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><p><em>March 15, 1921<em>

_Dear Ms. Jacobs,_

_Hello. Today I am writing to you on behalf of the Vera Claythorne Agency, a well-respected Brooklyn agency that specializes in matching eager, hard-working young women with positions that suit them for a good wage and many other honest benefits. _

_Through various contacts we received your open application for any work suitable to a respectable young lady and, after speaking with a few personal references and previous employers of yours, we have decided that you would be an ideal candidate for some temporary work that one of our clients is looking to hire. The position would be that of one of many maids to a wealthy retired gentleman who intends to re-open his manor home for the upcoming summer season. _

_We are assured that the wage is quite significant, both room and board are included, that the work once the home is open is very minimal and that the position is yours should you wish it. If you agree, please find transportation to Randall's Island—the island approximately six miles off the coast on Manhattan where your client makes his home—for the 3__rd__ of April with the understanding that you undertake your duties the following morning._

_Sincerely,_

_Mrs. A. Nonnie Mousse_

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><p>March 1921—<p>

Mister A. Higgins,

You may not know me but I am a friend of one of your friends, a fellow we both knows as Dutchy (_and here's a scrawled surname that might have started with a K or maybe an N)_. We play poker together sometimes, usually over Tibby's or at (_at first glance it says Conlon's, at second it says Caroline's, and by the third he's given up because he doesn't know a Conlon _or _a Caroline)_, and last time we met he mentioned you. He told me in confidence that you were a good man who has found himself in a bad place but could still be relied upon to be both discreet and trustworthy.

You see, there is an opportunity coming up for a few good men to make some quick money. I won't go into details here because of (_and here the next couple of lines are splotchy and blurred on account of a pale brown stain, coffee most likely)_, but we would like to have you join us. If this is something you might be interested in, we will be having our first meeting together on April 3rd. Our sponsor, some bigshot who owns a mansion on Randall's Island, he'll be hosting dinner for us all to get together.

Hoping to see you there!

Mister E. (_followed by another_ _illegible scribble and one last smudge)_

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><p><strong>29 MARCH 1921<strong>

**TELEGRAM**

**TO OSCAR DELANCEY—**

**TELEGRAM RECEIVED STOP SERVICES ENGAGED FROM NOW TIL FURTHER NOTICE STOP**

**FEE ALREADY DISCUSSED AND AGREED STOP PLEASE COME RANDALL'S ISLAND STOP EXPECT YOU FOR APRIL 3RD STOP PRESENT YOURSELF EARLY AND MAKE ARRANGEMENTS FOR SAME RIDE AS QUARRY STOP**

**MORE INSTRUCTIONS WILL FOLLOW **

**SIGNED—**

**U N OWEN**

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><p>- <em>stress, 04.03.12<em>


	2. Chapter One: the trips, part I

**Disclaimer**: Any characters you recognize in this story are the property of Disney and their likenesses are only used for fan related purposes. Any original characters featured are the intellectual property of their creators.

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><p><strong>One By One<strong>

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><p>Leaning back on the hard wooden seat, Jack Kelly was trying his best to remember whatever it was he knew about Randall's Island.<p>

It wasn't easy, considering he'd never even heard of the island before last week and none of his pals knew anything more than it was a strange island stuck out past the East River's reach and that it had a shady reputation ever since the House of Refuge had been shut down twenty years ago. It was haunted, he heard, the ghosts of those poor unfortunate children lingering there.

Overall, Jack had decided that most of what he learned sounded more like it belonged in one of those dime store novels rather than fitting a weekend invitation and he dismissed the stories with a charming grin and a chuckle. Now, though, he was more than halfway there and, with the next few days ahead of him, there was plenty of time to learn about his destination. So what if he didn't know anything about the place? Consider it an adventure!

Besides, there were much better things to dwell on just then—like the pretty brunette sitting a little ways farther down the boat, for one. Her head was bowed over some sort of tatting in her slender hands, maybe it was piecework, but she'd already dared enough fleeting glances up and over at Jack for him to know she was worth a little staring back. Who knows? At the very least, if this young woman was going to be a companion during his stay at Randall's Island, it was looking like it might be a good venture after all.

Of course, It would have been even better if the two of them were going to be alone. But seeing as how the small boat rowing them across the river seemed to be carrying more passengers than it probably should, that obviously wasn't the case.

There was the captain, a man called Snyder that Jack found himself immediately disliking, and his patch-wearing first mate who was just too chipper for this gloomy April afternoon. And then, sitting along the bench opposite of Jack—and a little too close to the pretty brunette for Jack's tastes—was a young man in a bowtie with curly brown hair and a furrowed brow.

He was reading a letter not unlike the one Jack had crumpled and stowed in his right hand pocket. A pair of intense blue eyes scrutinized every line, entirely oblivious to Jack's genial interest in his doings, and he nodded to himself before reaching behind inside his jacket pocket and pulling out a pencil. A small, palm-sized notebook followed next. He was lost in his work which pleased Jack slightly. It was his fault if he was so involved in his writing to notice a pretty girl so close to him.

There was only one other passenger sharing this trip, a fourth member to their strange little quartet. Jack hadn't noticed him at first, not when they were boarding, not even when they were first setting off for the island, but midway through the journey he was there as if he'd been there all along. He kept himself standing during the ride, his wiry arms reaching out behind him as he held onto the rim of the boat.

This man was about Jack's size, maybe shorter, but he was a bit bulky. Strong. A faded old derby that had once been black but was now more a burnt sort of grey was pulled down low, covering his eyes, and his expression was pleasantly neutral.

At least, Jack thought to himself, most of the time it was pleasantly neutral. Captain Kelly hadn't come out of the Great War with two medals and all of his limbs still attached without developing—or, in his case, honing—the skill to know when he was being watched and when he was being watched by someone who could very easily be a prospective and formidable enemy. Once or twice he'd caught a glimpse of the stranger with his head turned Jack's way and a cruel twist to his mouth.

Once or twice... but for a seasoned soldier, that had been enough.

He would have much preferred to keep his eye on the brunette but something warned Jack's attention from straying too far from the man in the derby. While he continued to lean back in his seat, the picture of a young man at ease, he was watching the other man watch him when, all of a sudden, the boat hit a particularly choppy wave and gave such a jolt that the girl's needle slipped, the curly-haired man dropped his pencil and Jack jerked in his seat.

The man in the derby hat barely moved at all, though his grip on the rails might have tightened just a little bit. And then, when the pencil rolled with the waves and landed right in front of him, he just turned his head down to look at it—

"Excuse me, sir, bit I believe that's my pencil—"

—and promptly kicked it away with the toe of his boot, sending it spiralling back across the deck where it happened to rest up against the side of the young woman's heeled shoe.

The curly-haired man cleared his throat. "Excuse me, miss. My pencil...?"

"Wha—oh... oh, yes." Setting aside her sewing, she lifted the hem of her plain cream-colored skirt before spying the wayward pencil. "Of course." She leaned over and scooped it up with slender, pale fingers.

"Thank you."

"No trouble at at all," she assured him kindly, handing him the pencil.

The man in the derby made a derisive noise in the back of his throat that the three other passengers ignored—though it _was_ pretty rough for the veteran soldier to pretend not to notice such rudeness. He scowled and hoped the other man noticed.

The curly-haired man accepted his pencil with a sheepish expression and quickly returned to his seat, bowing his head over his little notebook again, scratching away madly. The young woman picked up her sewing again and resumed work on it—but not before she shot Jack one further look out of the corner of her eye. Another look and one last hint of a shy yet coy smile before her piecework stole all of her attention.

Captain Jack Kelly sat up a little straighter in his seat.

A pretty girl, a smart sort of fellow and a shadow... Jack's handsome face brightened a little, never giving away more than he wanted it to. Yes. Whether or not he knew anything substantial in regards to Randall's Island before now or not, this weekend looked like it might prove to be quite entertaining after all.

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><p>At times Spot Conlon could be very easily amused—though, really, you would never know it from looking at him.<p>

A rough early life—scrapping for meals on the street, picking pockets in order to survive, fighting for everything he could get until, at the age of twenty-three, he had everything he could ever want—had given him a poker face to kill for. No matter what there was always a hard, steely edge to his brilliant cyan eyes, always a quiet mocking quality that pulled at his smirking lips, and at any given moment he could be plotting your downfall or wishing you the very best and you'd never have any idea until the moment he shook you by the hand or stabbed you in the back.

Just then, as the small dinghy made its way choppily toward Randall's Island, he was content with amusing himself by looking at his two fellow passengers and wondering, if they were both thrown overboard, who would have a better chance of surviving?

He made a point not to count the tiny craft's crew—a strange older man with grey hair, beady rat's eyes and a queer smile as captain, and his first mate, a happy, one-eyed man who cheerfully stowed Spot's case off to the side and welcomed him onboard—because their experience manning this boat had to count for something. It seemed cheap enough. Flimsy. How many times have they capsized already and had to swim back to the docks? Exactly.

No, if it was to be fair, it had to be between these two. They seemed pretty evenly matched. One of them was dark-haired, obviously a short fella though he'd already been sitting along a bench on the other side of the boat when Spot arrived, and he was sucking on a cigar that barely smoked. He was thin, compact, but that could work for him. Spot decided he was probably a good swimmer.

Then there was the other man. He looked to be about Spot's age but considering his baby face, he might have been older. He had darker coloring though his hair was tightly curled rather than slicked back like the other man's; Spot could still see the path of the comb's teeth in the first man's greasy black hair.. This one was definitely a lot more pleasant than his imagined rival—he hadn't lost his innocent, wide-eyed expression or his air of excitement since he followed Spot onto the boat.

Still, he had to have a head on the rest of the passengers, a head at least, and his thick boxer's build proved that he wasn't a man to be trifled with. Maybe he could float, mused Spot. Or maybe he could drown the shorter fella and use his body as a flotation device to get back to New York. Definitely something to consider.

Right now Spot was betting on the shorter of the two swimming away first and surviving but he hadn't quite made up his mind yet. Maybe by the time this rickety little ship docked he'd have a better idea.

Oh, well. At least it kept him occupied.

It was quiet, the only sounds being the slapping of the river against the hull and the muffled conversation between the two members of the crew in the front of the boat. Spot yawned. It was still early out—only mid-afternoon—but it had been a long one last night. Hopefully tonight went a little easier.

Across the way, the first man was absently jangling a hand full of worn dice, almost as if he wasn't even aware that he was doing it. Maybe he had felt Spot's interested eye on him because he kept making it a point not to meet it. Instead, he jerked his head over at the other fella who was standing up, pacing along the backside of the boat.

He broke the quiet up with a voice so stereotypically New York that Spot decided he had to be putting it on: "Hey... You okay, buddy? You don't look so good."

And it was true. As big as he was, there was no denying the greenish tint to his olive-colored skin. He smiled weakly. "Just a little seasickness," the second man admitted. "I'll be fine."

The shorter fella cracked a grin that revealed more than a mouth full of crooked teeth. "And you're taking a boat out tonight?"

"Had to." The sick fella took a steadying breath and exhaled loudly before chuckling softly. "If there was a way to walk to Randall's Island, I would've taken it. You can trust me on that."

"Not just takin' a tour for your health then?"

Despite his queasiness, his expression was just like a puppy dog: eager and faithful. Spot half expected him to lean down and lick the shorter fella's cheek. "Nope. I was invited to stay at the island for a couple days so I'm goin'." His voice, while wavering, was full of earnestness. "I'm sure there'll be some ginger ale when I get there. I've heard the dinners on Randall's Island are fabulous."

The first man, the shorter one, he looked mildly impressed that they were taking the same journey. Spot figured they were all heading to the same place though he didn't intrude on the conversation. He just listened, half interested in what they were saying, half wondering if the big fella's seasickness would make it difficult for him to swim.

The shorter fella scooted down on the bench he'd been perched on, making room for the sick fella to take a seat. "Here," he invited, "go on: take a load off. We've gotta be almost there."

"Oh? Have you been invited, too?" When the shorter fella nodded, the sick one graciously sank down in the offered seat. For such a strong-looking young man, thought Spot, he sure moved a lot more gracefully than he would've expected. "Thanks. I'm Mush, by the way."

"Tony," the short guy answered, "but if we're going by nicknames, you can call me Race."

Well, mused Spot, that certainly explained the dice. A gambler, right. A risktaker, too, but not a particularly good one judging by the wear and tear on his trousers and the stub of the nearly spent cigar Race kept clamped between his back molars during the entire trip so far. He was babying the cigar, nursing it, making it last, all the while while still jangling his damn dice, pretending to be friendly to the mushy fella.

Because Spot could tell he was faking, just like he could tell Mush's friendliness was genuine. He took in Mush's disposition, paying particularly close attention to his seasickness, and awarded another point in Race's favor. He looked like a survivor, that one. A real scrappy fella.

Those thoughts running through his head, he was keenly aware that both of them were shooting questioning gazes over at him but Spot remained blissfully quiet. He just fingered the edge of the cold cane sitting at his side and tilted his head back, staring up at the darkening sky.

He breathed in deep and noticed the metallic tang to the air. A storm was coming. Perfect.

So it seemed as if he was right: the three of them were heading to the same place. Randall's Island. Damn if he could even remember what had gotten him to agree to this trip in the first place, especially if his companions were going to be these two. Not that it really mattered. One night, that was all he planned on staying himself, and not even that long if he had his way.

Until then, he would hope that this dinner was as fabulous as Mush seemed to think it was. Forget the ginger ale, though. Give him a shot or two of the best moonshine whiskey and maybe he'll stop putting these two in fictitious peril—hell, he might even feel inclined to introduce himself at last.

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><p><strong>End Note<strong>: Okay, first chapter done :) With this chapter, I tried to reveal most of the main characters, as well as a little bit about them. Obviously, there's not much coming out yet - but that's because we're only just starting. That doesn't mean that you guys can't start making bets, though. I'm kinda excited to see what you guys think will be happening as we go along - and whether or not I can keep you stumped through the end.

I should have the next chapter really soon (considering how my Easter goes tomorrow, maybe even as early as then :D), and I'll reveal the last three characters for this plot. After that then the fun can really begin! I hope you're all excited as I am!

Special thanks go out to: **Pegasus**, **Mayarin**, **Joker is Poker with a J**, **Spin**,** Heavely Princess** and **DanceThroughInsanity** for reviewing the prologue. You have no idea how much I appreciated that.

- _stress, 04.07.12_


	3. Chapter Two: the trips, part II

**Disclaimer**: Any characters you recognize in this story are the property of Disney and their likenesses are only used for fan related purposes. Any original characters featured are the intellectual property of their creators.

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><p><strong>One By One<strong>

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><p>Using his good eye, Hayden "Kid Blink" Moore peered nervously at the island that was just beginning to blossom in front of him. He sighed in relief. Almost there. This was already his third trip out to Randall's Island that day alone—but, as the purple storm clouds rolled overhead, it was bound to be the last.<p>

Thank goodness.

Blink didn't normally sail with Captain Snyder. The captain—a man whose strict manner of being and perverse sense of humor had long ago earned him the nickname of the Warden—was usually a loner who sailed his little craft all by himself and protected it fiercely, never allowing any of the sailors to get too close to it. Blink himself was primarily a dockworker. But when the Warden was willing to offer a pretty penny to the first sailor who would help him spend the afternoon ferrying passengers across the river to the isolated Island, well... how could he resist?

Except, now that the thunderstorm was closing in upon them, he was beginning to wish he had. Six miles was six miles and he had seen firsthand the damage that the East River could inflict on a dinghy of this size when it was angry and Blink wasn't too thrilled with taking his chances. Despite only having the use of his right eye—his left eye blinded too many years ago to remember and hidden away behind a brown felt patch—Blink could swim with the best of them. But, still, six miles...

They shouldn't even have had to make this trip. When they let that last trio of men off, the Warden had told him that they would be docking for the night—until, that is, the last passenger came stumbling down the wooden planks toward them, offering ten dollars if the Warden would ferry her to Randall's Island immediately.

In order to get her way, the woman flirted incessantly with both men though she had to be at least twice Blink's age, and the Warden fell for her act hook, line and sinker. Maybe it was the big doe eyes, maybe it was the red curls or the over-the-top stage make-up she wore or even the affected Swedish accent that came and went in between her purring, but it was the Warden's turn to say yes.

In Blink's opinion the Warden got off easy. As captain, he spent the hour and a half trip manning the rudder, steering the small boat forward and while their passenger sidled close to him for a few short yet intimate conversations, she had flagged Blink over to sit with her for most of the ride. Blink had tried to pretend that the Warden needed him but somehow he ended up spending close to an hour listening to the woman talk about her heyday as a vaudeville performer before those damn talkies meant no one was seeing her show. For the last part of the journey, right about when he first started to notice the storm clouds, he had listened with a kind smile and a sympathetic ear but he couldn't deny that it was a blessing when the Warden finally called for him.

Blink excused himself, spared another look at the bruised clouds, said a silent prayer that the storm would hold out a little longer and then hurried to the captain's side.

"Yeah, Warden?"

"You smell that?" the Warden asked him, never once taking his eyes off of the waves in front of him.

"Smell what?" Blink took in a deep breath. "You mean the storm?"

The Warden gave a quick bob of his head. "That's right, boy. Storm's coming. If we're lucky, we should just make it back in time to get to shelter before it hits." He paused and exhaled. "You worried?"

There were plenty of rumors circulating around the docks when it came to Captain Snyder. Blink couldn't bring himself to believe most of them but it seemed pretty reliable that the old sailor got a kick out of sniffing out liars and making them regret it. He wasn't taking any chances. "A little," he admitted.

"Don't be. Worryin' never paid the bills. That's what money's for... and speakin' of money," he said and his suddenly queer smile left Blink more than a little uncomfortable, "tell me, what do you think of our guest?"

Grateful to have an excuse to look away from the Warden, Blink glanced over his shoulder to where Medda had spread out the full skirt of her outrageously purple gown. She caught his good eye looking at her and blew him a kiss. He tried not to let his pale cheeks color. "I don't know. She's just another passenger. Why do you ask?"

"Because Ms. Larkson seems keen on your company. She's offered me another five dollars if we help her carry her suitcases where she's headed to onshore. Ten dollars if I wait on the boat and you go with her yourself." He paused, fiddling the rudder just a bit to account for the wind. "I said you'd do it. It's five dollars extra for ya on top of what I'm paying you."

Blink's stomach sank a little further. So much for a quick return. He knew better than to argue with Snyder, too. Something told him that, if he declined, there was a good chance he wouldn't get _any_ money for the day's work.

Trying not to sound too defeated, he asked, "So where do I bring 'em?"

"The Big House." The Warden's tug of the rudder gave the small boat a jerk and left Blink more than a bit weak in the knees. "You ever heard of it?"

Blink nodded. He'd never actually been to Randall's Island before, there never had been a reason for him to, but he knew that the old juvenile detention center that used to dominate Randall's Island had been converted into a rather ritzy manor house. It had some fancy name but all of the sailors just referred to it as the Big House because of its history as a jail for kids.

"It's barely a mile walk from the shore. You think you could make it?"

"Yeah. No problem, Warden."

"Then make it quick, boy. Even with the wind blowing in our favor, it's still gonna be at least an hour ride back. I want to beat this storm to the shore—so if you're not back soon, I'm gonna have to leave you here. Plus I'm keeping the ten dollars myself if I have to come back for ya. And it wouldn't be tomorrow, either. Three trips today, I'm taking the day off."

Blink squinted as he glanced over at the Warden's expression, hoping to find some sign that his well-known ill-suited sense of humor was at play, but there was nothing there. The strange smile was eerily missing. He was serious. Snyder's no-nonsense frown told him as much.

He remembered that frown his entire journey off of the Refuge—because the Warden's sense of humor extended right to the name of his boat: the Refuge, a glorified paddleboat that masqueraded itself as a ferry—and onto Randall's Island. Ms. Larkson, or Medda as she insisted Blink call her, had brought enough luggage with her that it appeared at first glance that she was moving in. Though she carried one small case and her purse herself, that left Blink with at least five other larger cases to drag with him as the headed towards the Big House. One in one hand, two in the other, and then another two slung around his neck, weighing him down.

Of course, the fact that the rain started to pour down on them with a vengeance when there was still a quarter mile left to go didn't make the walk any easier. Medda sniffed and huffed, complaining that her coiffure was ruined, that her make-up was ruined, that her host should have at least been gracious enough to have an automobile waiting to drive her the rest of the way, and Blink couldn't help but agree with her. At one point he dropped the heaviest of her suitcases into a mud puddle that seemed to appear just in time for the slick rain to coat his hand and make his grip slippery and had to listen to Medda coo and comfort him that his poor, unfortunate clumsiness wasn't his fault but, well, if he could just be more careful, dear...

By the time they finally reached the Big House—"big" being an understatement for the three-floor mansion that dominated the whole of Randall's Island—Blink was ready to demand every single one of the ten dollars for this. He was cold, he was soaked to the bone and his hands felt like they were welded onto the handles of Medda's suitcases for how carefully he was carrying them now.

Desperate to get out from underneath the torrential downpour, Medda strode through the open gates and hurried right for the front door. Her once-buoyant gown was plastered to her arms and her legs, nearly tripping her up. Her vibrant red curls were stuck to her forehead, neck and cheeks, mingling with the remnants of her fancy black mascara that dripped down her cheeks like she was crying tears of motor oil.

Blink could only imagine what he looked like but, just then, he didn't care. All he wanted was to put those darn cases down and, as Medda pressed the doorbell royally once or twice before giving up, giving in and banging on the front door in a most unladylike manner, that's exactly what he did. He rubbed his cramped hands, stretching them and wondering if he could nudge the suitcases the rest of the way with the toe of his boot.

There were lights on in every room of this grand house and Blink wondered, with that many rooms, how would someone know that she was out there? But they did. The two of them only had to endure another minute in the chilled rain before the grand mahogany door swung inward revealing an elderly man in a suit who had thin white hair and bright dark eyes shining behind his thick glasses.

He got one good look at them and bowed. When he had straightened, he gestured at Medda. "Ms. Larkson?"

"Medda," she purred, her smile returning. Any of her annoyance or complaints vanished when confronted with another male. Somehow, Blink wasn't surprised.

"Yes... we've been waiting for you." The man pushed his glasses up his nose and flashed a small, tight-lipped almost grin that didn't quite meet his eyes. "I'll be your butler during your stay here. My name is Alfred Kloppman, but you can call me Kloppman. No 'mister' is needed, please. Now come on in, make yourself warm. There are towels in your room if you'd like to dry off. Second floor, your name is on the door." He turned to Blink. "Yours too," he added before reaching out a gnarled old hand, clearly intending to take the many suitcases himself.

Blink stepped back, lifting up the lightest of the cases and holding it in front of him as if it were a shield. "Oh, no... I'm not staying. I was just bringing the lady's bags in for her. In fact, I've gotta be goin'."

That surprised the butler—and Kloppman looked like a man who wasn't easily surprised in the least. He kept his hand reaching out though he didn't sound quite so certain as he asked, "Surely you're another guest?"

"Not me." Blink shook his head, splattering Kloppman with droplets of rain from his drenched blonde hair. "I ride out on the Warden's boat."

Kloppman finally drew his hand back. But, rather than let his arm fall back to his side, he reached inside of his vest and took out a piece of starched, ironed stock. Removing his glasses, he brought the card up to his nose and peered at the letters with eyes like a pair of beetles: small, dark and reflective. He clicked his tongue. "Don't tell me you're not, er, Kid Blink Moore."

Blink froze. Though he wasn't a suspicious young man by nature, even he couldn't let something like that slip by him without a question. "How do you know my name?" he demanded, spitting some of the rain drops out of his mouth with the force of his words.

The answer was right in front of him. In spite of the rain, Kloppman held the piece of paper out to Blink. His yellowed fingernail was pointing to one name in particular.

_Blink_'s name.

"Because," Kloppman said simply, "you're on my guest list."

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><p><strong>End Note<strong>: Okay, now we know we have the ten members of our cast :) Some of them might not know why they're there - and neither do we - but I have a pretty good idea they'll figure it out before too long. Heh. Because, you see, now that they've arrived on Randall's Island, the fun can really begin! Oh, and I should probably note that I've taken quite a few historical licenses with the island, its location, what happened with the Refuge, all of it. This is an AU for quite a few reasons, and my tweaking of the setting for my needs is one of them, just like the fact that none of these characters have ever met before - or have they? Hmmm...

I just wanted to say thanks again for everyone taking the time to read this and even review it! It's just starting out but your kind words and interest make me feel like this was a good idea for me to undertake to get my creative juices flowing again. And, as today is April 10th, I want to wish all the Newsies fans out there a very happy anniversary! Today marks the twentieth anniversary of our beloved film being released to the theatres. Don't worry - if you hear sobbing, that's just me in the corner as I realize that 1992 was already twenty years ago!

- _stress, 04.10.12_


	4. Chapter Three: the introductions

**Disclaimer**: Any characters you recognize in this story are the property of Disney and their likenesses are only used for fan related purposes. Any original characters featured are the intellectual property of their creators.

* * *

><p><strong>One By One<strong>

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><p>Blink followed Kloppman and Medda into the lobby, still dragging the woman's many suitcases with him. Confronted with his name scrawled neatly on Kloppman's list, Blink didn't know what else to do. And, he figured, it was warm and dry inside. Since it was still raining buckets outside, at least he had improved his situation somewhat.<p>

As grand and impressive as the Big House was on the outside, Blink was still extremely taken with the lobby as the old butler led them through it. The front room alone was five times as long as the shabby one-room apartment that Blink called home, and perhaps twice as wide. Countless doorways—each with their own handcrafted, matching mahogany door—branched off from the lobby; the doors were nearly all closed leaving Blink to only imagine what sort of riches and beauty lurked beyond. Their footsteps echoed around them, the endless pitter patter of the raindrops on the roof slightly muffled, and Blink couldn't help but marvel at the sheer size of such a hall.

There was one touch of extravagance in the understated decoration: a shimmering crystal chandelier that twinkled wanly in the pale yellow electric light. Blink eyed the structure warily as he passed beneath it, both in awe and equally afraid that one rough gust of wind would send it crashing down to the tiled floor. It didn't look all that sturdy to him and he scooted past Medda—who was standing directly beneath the chandelier, watching it sparkle, mesmerized—and didn't stop until he was right on Kloppman's tail.

Oblivious to Blink's twitchy manner, Kloppman headed straight for a particular doorway off on the far left. A brighter light eked its way out into the hall. This was one of the open paths and obviously their destination.

The parlor room.

It was a large room, cozily lit with a roaring fire alive in the grate on the far side. Blink could tell at once it was a room to sit back and rest in; there were a handful of stuffed armchairs and straight-backed seats everywhere he looked, a couch wide enough to fit five plus a loveseat that presently seated just one: Sarah Jacobs, the only other woman in the room apart from Medda Larkson. Six other men—Blink had met them all on their crossing from Manhattan to Randall's Island—were scattered throughout the room, some standing, some sitting and all of them looking up curiously as Kloppman, Blink and Medda entered the room.

Blink stopped after he had taken a few steps into the room. Despite what Kloppman's list had read, he knew he wasn't invited to this house—he didn't feel welcome around all of these strangers. Once they had seen who had entered the parlor, they all went back to what they were doing: Mush throwing a log on the fire to warm up his hands, David bowed over his little notebook with his pencil in his hand, Jack smoking a cigarette while Race had the stub of an unlit cigar clamped between his back teeth. None of them acknowledged the sailor's presence at all and, maybe it was the raindrops running down his backs, but he felt a chill just then.

The weather seemed to be in line with Kid Blink. The thunder clapped with such a force that the windows in the old house rattled. Half the guests looked either alarmed or unnverved at the sudden sound while the other half pretended not to notice. Only Spot seemed immune to it but that might have been because he hid his unease better than most.

But, at that crashing and the rattling, Blink's heart just about stopped. Not because of the thunder but, rather, what it could mean.

He dropped Medda's bags off to the side of the rug he was dripping directly on top of. "I've gotta be goin' back," he blurted out. "The Warden's waitin' to take me back to New York."

It was interesting how the sailor made the island of Manhattan seem an entity separate from Randall's Island. Surely they were still in New York but, even so soon after arriving at the manor house, it was easy to forget that. Six miles from the harbor could very easily be viewed as a world apart.

None of the others made any move that they wanted to join Blink back out in the rain and, with a tip of his sodden cap in Kloppman's direction and then Medda's, he retreated back out of the parlor. He never even waited for his tip from Ms. Larkson, too anxious to catch the boat before Snyder turned back in an attempt to outrun the storm.

Kloppman, taking his role as butler seriously, grabbed all of Medda's suitcases with only a small amount of trouble and led the drenched woman out of the parlor and towards the nearest staircase.

Seven strangers were then left alone together, making idle chitchat and watching the fire in the grate blaze.

Apart from bringing Medda and her bags upstairs, Kloppman didn't stray too far from the entryway the entire time Blink was gone. When the doorbell chimed not more than a half an hour after Blink had left, the butler wiped his hands on his trousers, left the parlor and moved sedately towards the front door. Without another word, he opened it up and let Blink back in. One couldn't help but wonder if he'd been expecting the sailor's return but, too busy drowning in the awkward silence that had refilled the room again, none of them said anything about it.

Seven pairs of eyes turned curiously towards the open doorway when Kloppman walked back through it, followed shortly by an even more soaked Kid Blink.

"The boat was already gone," he announced glumly before sinking into an empty seat near the roaring fire. Turning his chair, Blink angled it so that he was facing the flames in a feeble attempt to finally begin getting dry. The mood he was in now, having been left behind on Randall's Island by the Warden after all and still feeling like he shouldn't be there, he didn't want to talk to any of the passengers and was grateful when no one tried to engage him in any conversation.

Not yet, anyway.

Medda returned to the parlor mere minutes after Blink made his way back. The old showgirl had taken time to wash off her ruined make-up though she had perhaps reapplied it a bit too hastily; her damp red curls were pinned back, revealing the wash of pale powder across her cheeks and chin, plus too-thick eyeliner that gave her the appearance of an elderly raccoon. Her lips widened in delight when she spied Blink sitting in front of the fire, growing ever wider as she noticed that, apart from Blink and Kloppman, there were six other men in the room. With a kittenish grin, she tied the sash of her gown a little tighter and sashayed into the center of the room.

She had traded her ruined dress for a silk dressing gown. Sarah Jacobs—grateful to see another woman present among eight men—felt her own cheeks turn scarlet at the revealing ensemble and wondered why Medda had been invited to the manor house. But then, she was the new maid and not in the position to criticize her new mistress's choice of company and so she kept her thoughts to herself.

The rest of those assembled didn't seem to know what to make of Ms. Larkson, either. Race sniggered openly while Spot looked the woman over once before turning an interested gaze to the oblivious Sarah. David wondered to himself if it would be rude to suggest that she cover herself up before dinner and Jack Kelly couldn't help but think that he'd seen Medda somewhere else before.

Once all of the guests were together again, Kloppman had excused himself and vanished back into the front room. He must have gone to the kitchen because when he returned a few minutes later, he was carrying a circular tray laden down with more than a dozen short glasses. Most of them were filled with a clear liquid while a few held what could only be—

"Whiskey! Ah, now _that's_ more like it."

"My master left very clear instructions to make sure that you're served first," explained Kloppman, picking up one of the half-filled amber glasses from his tray and handing it off to Spot before any of the others.

Spot's glass stopped halfway to his lips. He narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "He did _what_ now?"

"In his notes for me, he made sure to leave word to bring drinks out before dinner or else Mister Conlon would hardly make it to the meal. Dinner is nearly ready. Here are the drinks."

Spot relaxed visibly and raised his glass again. "Yeah, well, he was right." His thin lips curled into something that could only be called a smirk.

Kloppman made his rounds throughout the parlor offering drinks to all of the guests. Jack took a glass and so did Oscar. David did though he barely took a sip while Medda downed her entire glass in one practiced gulp. Mush waved Kloppman away when he offered it to him but changed his mind when Blink grabbed one and, after the day he had, drank it even quicker than the old showgirl. Race continued to puff away on his unlit cigar. Sarah shook her head when the tray was held out to her, her nose wrinkling as she did so.

Spot caught sight of her grimace. "What's the matter? You a teetotaler or something? Don't like the taste?"

"It's just... it's Prohibition," explained Sarah apologetically. "It's not allowed." She glanced around anxiously as if expecting the cops to raid the house that very moment.

Spot snorted to show what he thought about that but, as Kloppman made one final round handing out drinks before disappearing back in the kitchen again, the weight of the silence settled on their shoulders again.

That is, until Medda—who had finished her second glass of whiskey and was on her third—stood up royally and tapped one of her long, painted nails against the rim of her cup. She had grown tiresome of the quiet.

"Since our host has been so ungracious as to leave us waiting, maybe we should take this time to get to know each other. Since we're going to be guests under this same roof, I mean." When nobody said anything in response, she stood up royally and gestured at her ample chest. "I'll start. I, as you all are aware, am the infamous Medda Larkson." She paused, waiting for a sound of recognition that never came. "The Swedish Meadowlark." Her chin wobbled ever so slightly. "Star of the stage? Vaudeville queen?"

"Oh—oh, _yes_. _Medda _Larkson." Setting his untouched drink down on a nearby table, Mush stood up and bowed slightly in Medda's direction. "It's... it's an honor to meet you, ma'am."

Appearing both haughty and appeased the next instant, Medda preened under his attention. "And what's your name, my dear?" she purred.

"It's Connor. Connor Meyers." He glanced back at Race. "Folks call me Mush, though. You guys can, too, if ya want."

Race removed his cigar from his mouth, realized at last that the fire had gone out and then tucked the rest of it inside his vest pocket. He then waved his hand at the assembled group; on closer inspection, you could see that when he pulled his hand out of his vest pocket, he brought a worn deck of cards out with it. "They call me Race. If anyone's up for a round of poker or something while we wait for dinner, I'm game."

"Oscar Delancey," offered Oscar from his place across the room. He still was wearing his derby hat and seemed to have no inclination to take it off despite being indoors.

The others waited to see if there would more to his short introduction than that but, before there was, Kloppman returned to the parlor room carrying another tray with him. There were fewer glasses on this one and they were larger tumblers full to the brim with—

"Freshly pressed cider," announced Kloppman, "just brought in from the mainland this morning."

He gained Medda's attention at once. She clasped her hands to her chest and cooed. "You went into the city for cider?" Then, batting her heavily made-up eyes at the elderly man, she added, "How sweet of you!"

Kloppman barely seemed to notice her fawning attention. He nodded curtly while adjusting the position of two of the cider glasses on his tray. "No, ma'am. I brought it in with me."

"But... but surely you mean _back_, don't you?"

"Not quite, ma'am."

Sarah was puzzled. "I thought you were the butler here."

"I am," agreed Kloppman. "The new butler. This, too, is my first night in this house. I was engaged by my master by post, with a sheaf of instructions awaiting my arrival here. You must pardon me while I learn my away around the manor."

Eight others thought—some curiously, some guiltily, some only fleetingly—of the matched letters in their own pockets. And none of them mentioned it at all.

Spot, who was holding his second whiskey in one hand, reached out the other and snagged a glass of cider off of Kloppman's tray. With a bit of a leer and more than half a predatory expression, he gazed down on Sarah and angled to cider towards her. "How 'bout you, sweetheart? Who are you?"

Jack, standing on his feet no more than a few paces behind the couch where Sarah was perched, straightened up as Spot leaned closer to the girl. He took an angry drag off of his cigarette but didn't say a word about Spot's attention.

It wasn't lost on Sarah, either. The closer Spot came, the further she scooted back into the fold of the couch. She risked a small smile that was as hesitant as it was lovely, meeting Spot's brilliant eyes for only a heartbeat before staring at the swirling pattern of the Oriental rug under the coffee table.

When she realized that she didn't only just have Spot's attention but the rest of the room's as well, she cleared her throat a little nervously. "Don't you worry about me. I'm not anyone. I'm just supposed to be the new maid. In fact," she said, starting to rise though she kept her gaze downward, "I should probably help him serve all of you guests."

And she probably would have, too, if it wasn't for Medda's throaty laugh. "Oh, do sit down, dear. I don't think your duties start until your master arrives. Not like Mr. Kloppman's here. You didn't receive any instructions, did you?"

"Well, no—"

Medda waved her hand regally back at Sarah. "Go on, then. Put your feet up and tell us a little bit about yourself."

Sarah had to admit the other woman had a point. Wasn't that what her letter from the agency had said, after all? _With the understanding that you undertake your duties the following morning... _At last, she graciously accepted the glass of cider that Spot was holding out to her; her smile this time was a little less hesitant and even a bit dazzling, though she found she couldn't meet his gaze for longer than a few seconds without feeling like he was looking _through_ her. "Thank you," she said, before addressing the room again. "In that case, I'm Sarah Jacobs. It... it's so nice to meet you all."

At Sarah's introduction, David gave a start, his hand shaking just enough to disrupt the whiskey that, like Mush, he hadn't even touched. A single drop of the rich amber liquid disappeared against the wooden floor. "My name is Jacobs, too. Not... not Sarah, of course, my name is David." He cleared his throat. "David Jacobs, reporter for the Sun."

Spot smirked over at Sarah, now tilting his half-empty whiskey glass in her direction. He seemed to be enjoying himself more than most. "I see... you two married then?"

David spluttered and Sarah shook her head vigorously. Her face had gone red enough to match the vivid swirls in the same carpet that continuously drew her eyes toward it.

"Brother and sister maybe?"

Jack stepped forward, removing his cigarette and keeping it perched between two fingers on his right hand. "They must be strangers," he interjected hotly, glaring at Spot. "We all are."

Blink lifted his head up at that news but didn't say anything. No, the floor still belonged to Spot.

"And who are you?" he asked Jack. Spot's upper lip curled and he took one more dainty sip from his glass.

"Captain Jack Kelly."

"Jack be nimble, Jack be quick... you fight in the Great War, Jack?"

Jack nodded. There was still something of the soldier about him. "And what about you?" he asked, though it was easy to tell from the cocky way he posed the question that he already knew the question.

"I'm fighting this war," Spot drawled, lifting up his glass. There were still a few drops of the whiskey sloshing around at the bottom. He gave the glass a little shake and they danced.

No surprise, Race was the first one to catch on. "You're a bootlegger?"

"And proud of it." His gaze traveled back to Sarah. Tipping an imaginary hat, he said, "Spot Conlon, at your service."

If it was possible, Sarah's face turned even redder at Spot's blatant attention. Jack bristled and, still standing to attention, he moved ever so slightly closer to the edge of the sofa where Sarah was perched.

Spot laughed. "Strangers, sure, Jacky Boy, but not if you had it your way, eh?"

"I think you should watch yourself, Mr. Conlon. I don't think I like what you're implying."

"Yeah? _Yeah_?" There was still humor in his tone but a warning written in his eyes. "Whatcha wanna do about it?"

Jack huffed and, after taking an angry pull on his dwindling cigarette, rubbed the back of his hand against his mouth. He flexed his left fist, opened and closed it, and tried to calm down. Being a soldier had taught him some discipline and Lord knows he saw plenty of bums like Conlon while in action but some times were more difficult than most. Especially when there was a brunette beauty at stake.

It didn't make it any easier when Spot laughed again and, purposely turning his back on Jack and most of the other interested guests, wandered off in search of Kloppman and—if he was lucky—another full tray of so very good, and so very illegal whiskey.

Kloppman, who had seemingly vanished though no one had really noticed him go, came back empty-handed just as the clock started to chime seven o'clock.

"Dinner is served," he announced.

A storm of surprised mutterings broke out.

"Dinner?"

"Did he say dinner is served?"

'Really?"

"Great, I'm starving."

"How is—"

"Excuse me." Mush tentatively raised his hand, effectively cutting off all of the other murmurs. "Dinner? But we haven't even met our host yet. Don't you think it would be... don't you think we should wait?"

Kloppman looked over the top of his glasses at Mush. "My orders are to serve dinner precisely at seven o'clock." The bell tolled its seventh rang. "It's seven o'clock now and so, if you would please, follow me to the dining room."

"But what about our host?"

"Don't you worry, Mr. Meyers. I've been assured that the master will arrive shortly after dinner."

That seemed to appease most of the guests—but not all of them. Blink, who had been lazily watching the fire for most of the introductions, jerked his head until he was staring at the butler. "How?" he blurted out.

"Pardon me, Mr. Moore?"

"It's Blink," he corrected. Mr. Moore had been his father and Lord knows he didn't want to be reminded of that man. "And how is he going to get here if he ain't here already? The Warden's done ferryin' for the night."

"There must be another boat," murmured Sarah. Her eyes were drawn down to her hands in her lap. She didn't seem to truly believe what she was saying, but felt like she _had _to say it.

Blink waved her objection away. "Yeah, but you haven't seen it out there. It's rainin' buckets—no one's gonna be out on the docks in this weather."

Spot scoffed. "It ain't gonna rain forever, pal, and then you better bet a boat's comin' because I'm getting' off this rock." Race nodded in agreement.

"All the same," interjected Kloppman with the sort of ferocity only an experienced servant could get away with when up against such a motley crew of guests, "orders are orders. It's seven o'clock. So, if you'll all follow me, _please, _your dinner is waiting."

* * *

><p>- <em>stress, 07.01.12<em>


End file.
